


an all too obvious trap

by Teaotter



Series: powers and presences [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 11:06:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/638230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teaotter/pseuds/Teaotter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moz has spent his whole life on the outside of powers. Most criminals have something – a minor talent for curses, a hint of glamour for distraction, more rarely something as powerful as Neal's empathic control. Moz doesn't have a whit of it, not a single solitary magical flicker in his entire gene pool. But he's smart and he's stubborn and he knows how to do his research. He always carries a counter-curse, and he never gives out his real name. If he wishes sometimes he could just magic his problems away, that's something no one else will know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	an all too obvious trap

Moz waits quietly in the darkened room, the old victrola singing softly to itself in the corner. It's the one room of June's house she'd told Neal never to enter; the only room left consistently unlocked, often with the door just far enough ajar for a curious (con) man to see the horn of the old record player and the glorious upholstery of an antique Queen Anne chair. Moz had noted the way the back of that chair would hide its occupant from any prying eyes in the hallway. 

It was far too obvious a trap for his taste, but then, so was the whole set-up. Which is why he picked a night when he knows Neal is busy fulfilling his lien to the Bureau. Why Moz is sitting in a side chair on the far side of the room, where the swing of the door opening will hide him as long as possible. Why he's carrying a pocketful of salt, a paper bag full of ten-cent “penny” nails, and a number of rowan twigs on his person.

Moz has spent his whole life on the outside of powers. Most criminals have something – a minor talent for curses, a hint of glamour for distraction, more rarely something as powerful as Neal's empathic control. Moz doesn't have a whit of it, not a single solitary magical flicker in his entire gene pool. But he's smart and he's stubborn and he knows how to do his research. He always carries a counter-curse, and he never gives out his real name. If he wishes sometimes he could just magic his problems away, that's something no one else will ever know.

Unless they can read his mind, of course, and his research wasn't clear on whether or not the more powerful fae can. He's never actually dealt with anything larger than a pixie, so he can't be sure they can't. Read his mind, that is. So he doesn't think about all the precautions he took coming here tonight, doesn't think about all the ways this could go wrong. Just that the music will call her, and then they'll talk.

Though honestly, Moz thought she'd have sprung her trap much faster than this. He's been playing that record for almost an hour before the door opens, and June's hand reaches for the light switch.

The lamp on the other side of the room comes on, warmly yellow as candle flame, and Moz blinks at the sudden light. His eyes had long since adjusted to the dimness, but that isn't what worries him. He'd removed the light bulbs in this room himself before he started the music.

Still. It's no reason to deviate from the plan. He waits for her to step inside the room before speaking. “You can't have him.”

June's hand tightens on the door frame for a brief moment, before a welcoming smile steals across her face. “Mozzie! I didn't know you were coming by this evening –”

“You can drop the old lady act, too,” Moz tells her. He should have known better than to buy her friendly demeanor in the first place. “I know what you are.”

June steps farther into the room and closes the door behind her. “What I am?”

She sounds so completely puzzled that it throws him for a moment. It makes him doubt, even with the lamp, even with the victrola and the room and _Neal_. But Moz wouldn't be here if he weren't sure, and that's what the fae do, they make you think you're imagining things. When they aren't making you imagine things. Or imagine that you're imagining things. Which is why he has to stick to the plan.

“I know,” he repeats, as much to himself as to her. “Your influence may have dwindled since you lost your knight, but I know the stories about you. Lady.” Not that he'd known they were about her, precisely, but he doesn't have to say that.

Then she laughs, and it shivers on his skin, raising goosebumps all up and down his arms. Moz braces himself, but nothing worse happens. The years don't fall away from her face, and she doesn't start glowing (he'd half-hoped the glowing was true, at least), but suddenly there's not a hint of age to her. “Oh, Mozzie. You had me worried for a minute there.”

“You should be worried.” Moz sets his mouth against the desire to smile back at her. “I came prepared.”

June walks over to turn off the record player, but Mozzie gestures sharply.

“Leave it on. That was your trap, wasn't it?” he asks bitterly. Neal _likes_ June, and Moz had liked her, too. More than Neal's other new associates, certainly. “Dress him up in your knight's suits, give him this nice place to stay, sucker him in. Then give him one thing he's not supposed to do. You were waiting for the day he came in here to listen to the records, and then you'd go all Bluebeard on him.”

“Mozzie!” June shakes her head slowly. “I don't want him dead.”

“No, you just want him bound to you!” This isn't part of the plan. Moz knows he sounds betrayed, and the last thing he ought to do is show her that he's hurt. The fae use your feelings against you, all the books say that. “You needed a knight, if you wanted to get your territory back. And there he was, just waltzing by, and you thought he was yours for the taking. Well, you're wrong.”

“Because he's your friend.”

“Yes, he is!” Moz finds himself on his feet – and this isn't part of the plan, either. He's going to need a new plan, soon, if he keeps going off the rails like this. “So just – you'd better – start looking for a new patsy!”

Moz is trembling by the time he's done speaking, anger and hurt and blinding jealousy all mixed up and burning down his throat. It's embarrassing. He half-expects June to have him thrown out like a child having a tantrum, but she just watches him for a moment before turning to the sideboard and opening a decanter of some amber liquid. If Moz didn't know better, he'd say she's giving him a moment to collect himself.

If he didn't know better, he'd say he's grateful for it. 

“Mozzie,” June says softly, still turned away. “I never wanted Neal to be my knight.”

“Don't try to con a con, Lady --”

“I wouldn't.” Though the impish smile she casts over her shoulder says otherwise. “But you have to admit, he's not very useful. He's strong enough, yes, but I can't really use someone who doesn't recognize a powerful supernatural being when he's living under the same roof.”

She hands him one of the tumblers, and Moz takes it. He's too smart to drink from it, but the scent that wafts up is pure summer honey. “Then what were you planning?”

June takes a sip from her own glass, closing her eyes to savor the taste. When she opens them again, her eyes are golden. It isn't just the lamplight. “When I brought Byron's things to the shop? I planned to let it go. Byron is the one who wanted a kingdom; I was happy enough to let my powers wane after his death. This house was all the territory I needed.”

Moz's heart drops. “But then you saw Neal.”

“It's true, he reminded me of Byron. And I'm always happy to put a twist in the law's tail. But what I saw about Neal was how well someone had protected him from all the dark things that want to sink their claws into a soul like his. I wanted to meet that protector.” June smiles again, and Moz wonders how he ever imagined this trap was obvious. “And I did.”

Moz sinks slowly into his chair, still clutching the glass. He still has all the weapons he brought with him, but he's starting to doubt that they'll be useful. He's not sure he ever could have used them; he really should have done more research.

June's smile widens, and it's like a weight pressing on Moz's chest. He can barely breathe through the desire to please her. “Now that I've met you, I have to say that I'm beginning to find myself more interested in expanding my influence –”

Moz's gaze flicks to the door, once, helplessly. He doesn't really want to run; he just wants to know whether he could want to if he wanted to. If he should want to. Wanting things is bad around the fae. But he manages to hold his voice – mostly – steady. “I don't do allegiances.”

June laughs, finally, and the pressure on Moz's heart eases slightly. “I didn't think you did. But I thought you might be interested in the occasional contract?”

It's a dangerous thing to even be considering, but this, at least, Moz knows is his own. He's spent his whole life at the edges of powers. He knows how to use them. He's even good at it; especially if they're not fond of the law. “We might be able to negotiate a mutually beneficial agreement.” 

He dares a sip of the liquor as a show of good faith. It tastes like sunshine.

June leans forward to touch her glass to his, the chime ringing true as a bell in the sudden silence from the victrola. “I certainly hope so.”


End file.
